Because it's true
by Emma Lynch
Summary: So, hear me out. This may be controversial. But, on the other hand… It may be true. Sherlock Holmes has always loved Molly Hooper. Always, always.
1. Chapter 1

**_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._**

 ** _(~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)_**

* * *

 ** _Prologue, by Sherlock Holmes_**

I am a consulting detective. Every day I work the currency of truth and lies, the forum of honesty, and the art of withholding. I am enveloped each time I bid the client to the chair, with half truths, bold assertions of honesty and vapid, over-blinking, fidgeting lies. It has been said that the truth can suffer from too much analysis, and I do find myself in agreement, since a poor liar (as well as a good one) is my bread and butter, deserving a large proportion of my time in analysis of their origins. There are so many masks that people wear in which to tell their truths; a place to hide when their deepest secrets are threatening to be laid bare, glistening and vulnerable, like viscera. Certainly too, liars can be found out from the company they keep. The innocence of the truthful friend appeals to them and draws them in. Everything is a disguise; another shade to hide behind; a curtain to shroud about their self-imposed corruption.

Everywhere I go, I determine upon a brimming cornucopia of truth that shines bright, attracting lesser beings with its glittering purity. A hand held out to cross a road, open palms of coins passed with smiles across shop counters; a set of intricate directions sincerely offered and received with gratitude and trust; the speedwell-blue eyes of a smiling baby that clings to your coat, reminding you of its mother.

And everyday I myself tell bold truths, since Einstein himself believed that small lies indicate a much deeper dishonesty and a person who is unworthy, a person not to be held in trust and regard by clients and peers alike. Thus, I tend to affect a dignified (some might say haughty) demeanor, since a professional exterior elicits trust ( _and, as we are being so truthful, clients can be a little more than tedious_ ). John Watson, Lestrade, Hopkins (and her ilk) bleat for a more gentle approach on occasion, but I affect not to window dress my truths, since time is usually of the essence, and for every case I solve, there are twenty more awaiting my attention.

It is often quite tedious being the only one in the world.

Therefore, it must be said that there is really nothing I do not know, nor cannot anticipate about dishonesty. My work necessitates that I must peel away the paper-thin wings of falsehood, mistrust and lies from the carapace of events laid out before me, often with the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. A slight pause in delivery, a hand across the throat, the mouth, the eyes, a stillness or (conversely) constant movement, a swallow and a glance away… All such signs do I search out and recognise, all neon and flashing above the heads of the duplicitous and the mendacious.

There are a million ways to catch liars, and I should know.

Since I am one of them.

~x~

 _A Background Story_

 _So, hear me out._

 _This may be controversial._

 _But, on the other hand…_

 _It may be true._

 _Sherlock Holmes has always loved Molly Hooper._

 _Always, always._

 _From the moment he stopped and looked into the eyes of the pathologist (the last of many pathologists), his cold, deadened heart stopped in its tracks and faltered uncertainly, teetering on the precipice of a very new and unwelcome rhythm. He knew that he loved her with the same assurance that he knew that the pollen in this dead man's nostril was from a rare orchid being nurtured in his ex-wife's greenhouse; with the same certainty that John's new obsession with green chai tea would not result in a third date with the girl from Pumphrey's Tea Rooms; with the absolute knowledge that Mrs Hudson had a secret garage in Marylebone Avenue and that James Moriarty was still… dead._

 _This, remarkable in itself and despite the powerful, all-encompassing, transmutational power of love, is not the most remarkable notion in this story. No, the true singularity of Sherlock's new discovery was its utter and unquestionable need to be hidden and never looked at again, much in the manner of a poison pen letter, or a traitor's likeness. Indeed, the greatest (and most difficult) feat in the adult life of this consulting detective was not the solving of an intricate and baffling case, nor application of the superhuman powers he frequently employed to do so, but rather the huge and complex fortress of lies and misdirections in which Sherlock hid his love for Molly Hooper. No-one must ever be allowed to witness or even sense the warmth from that glowing, burning flame which could be neither ignored nor extinguished. No-one must have even the smallest of suspicions, since no-one must know the shape of his heart._

 _Friends, family, perfect strangers in the mortuary or on the street must see him as he always was - cold, logical, alone, safe in his solitude._

 _Thus, Sherlock lives in plain sight of his love, affecting a light friendship (nothing more) and perpetuating the lies he tells himself each day. A man in his position (with his enemies) could not afford to experience the loss, the longing, the lessening hope that would inevitably result from such indulgences. How he envied the smiling John Watson, ushering a (nameless) woman into a cab before Mary had come along; the perpetual optimism of Lestrade receiving flirtatious glances from Hopkins during morning briefings (pointless - gay); even the tragi-comedy that was the unholy coupling of Anderson and Donovan sometimes arrested his attentions, interrupted his flow… but then the button is pressed and reset, and everything resumes in the way it should._

 _Cold, logical, alone._

 _Truthfully, one might argue, that a man who had never experienced love would be foolish indeed to retreat from what it might have had to offer. Should not a man (particularly one with such an enquiring mind) be glad to insinuate himself into new and possibly advantageous experiences? But Sherlock was not such a man. As a child (so long ago) he had experienced the loss, the longing, and, indeed, the lessening hope of loving another, and it would not (could not) happen again._

 _Sherlock would hide his humanity and his unexpected love and everyone would be none the wiser._

 _Everyone would be safe._

~x~

CHAPTER ONE: Coffee

(Molly)

I feel that today _could_ have gone better.

He came in this morning, just when I thought he'd found another pathologist to cajole into helping him, and he was just… _glorious,_ if I'm honest. If someone had asked what the highlight of my day was going to be as I ate my cornflakes this morning, I could have said, Sanderson's day off, Sarah's new kittens ( _in picture form only - hygiene!_ ) or even curly fries in the canteen, but I most likely would not have mentioned a very pretty man in a tight shirt whipping seven shades out of a dead co-worker with a riding crop, even though (in actual fact) that is what happened. Instead of watching the impact of the crop and resultant bruising, I was shamefully only looking at the dark curl that bounced down across his brow with every stroke and the clench of his hard jaw as his eyes narrowed, like green, glittering shards of glass…

Ah, look. I'm coming across all sexual and poetic, and I'm honestly neither. I'm a scientist, a person who questions, tests variables and catalogues and records without bias or flights of fancy creeping in around the edges. _But this man_ … he's a sight to see, and quite a cold fish too. A friend of Mike's who gets (quite ridiculous imo) access to the labs in the name of 'helping' the police and who everyone avoids owing to his bitter tongue and unwelcome truths.

"He's not gonna be the father of your kids, Molly."

"No? Fancy."

"Just tryna spare you the pain."

"I don't need sparing, I just want to look at him for a bit."

"Nah…" Sarah bit into her curly fry. "Stop with the wimping. Ask him for coffee."

"I don't want coffee with him. He'd probably just ask me to make it."

"Probs." She lifted another and I suppressed the urge to steal it from her fork. "But do it for me."

"I'd do it for a tenner."

She sighs, nodding.

"And for that fry."

So I do.

Bear in mind, Sherlock Holmes and myself have met three times (including today) and have been nothing more than polite (me) and forthright (him) with each other.

He is staring at me, face blank and expressionless, yet a little quizzical crease creeping in between his brows.

"Yes. So, as I said, wondering if you'd like to have… coffee?"

He barely blinked before turning away, busying his hands on my favourite Leitz (without my permission), head whipping round as if I'd slapped his face or something.

"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

Sighing, I turn, heading for the kitchen, via the cashpoint.

(Sherlock)

This is my baseline and I must not deviate from it. It is indeed unfortunate that Molly Hooper is the most accommodating of the pathologists here, or I would take my needs to another - less combustible - source. As it stands, I am forced to administer my crop with an audience of one: of her. It is advantageous, however, that my hands are engaged and my purpose clear and binding. I have no cause to look at her ( _eye contact - too little is incriminating, too much - the same_ ), nor to talk ( _become garrulous, overly 'chatty', adding details that do not matter_ ) so that Mr Criterion is in receipt of my full attention. The bruises should be spectacular.

Later, I am able to immerse myself in some essential analysis of a particularly obscure and fascinating tree mould to a pleasingly degree and I am unaware exactly as to how much time has elapsed until the door creaks open.

 _Honeysuckle. Strawberries_. A little mint (toothpaste/mouthwash?) A hesitant gait. She is uncertain. She has a question that shall be difficult for her to broach. I am very still at the microscope. Her coat brushes against the stainless steel countertop, further telegraphing her caution; it is a new coat, the starch still evident, the buttons clicking against the bench. I am very still and am suddenly aware she is asking a question. I barely hear the words, but the lilt of her voice (slight catch in the throat) is soothing, like balm for a nettle sting.

I have to turn, but hold my notebook before me, like a talisman, a shield. I barely glance, but instantly my eyes find her mouth, sculpted, pink, showcasing. I can barely focus on her words, so I scribble some nonsense to occupy my hands. She needs to go now, but she is still speaking and I must stop her.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." My words vomit forth, unchecked.

Her voice stills, her mouth opens a little in a moue of puzzlement and and attempt to batten down my treacherous heart. I am cold, logical.

She continues to speak.

"...wondering if you'd like to have… coffee?" says Molly Hooper, copper hair smoothed back into a childish ponytail, a dimple of friendliness illuminating the smile she is offering me. The offer of her company. Is it a joke? Perhaps, but her eyes are kind and I see the seed of a genuine affection sparkle from them. My outward demeanor shows no sign of my inner turbulence and unruly heart.

I snap shut my notebook, turning on my heel.

"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

And I leave.

I cannot even give Molly Hooper a ' _please_ ' as there can be absolutely no breach of my fortress.

Everyone must be safe.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hello to all (post S4).**

 **I didn't really know what to do with it...**

 **So I did this.**

 **Bear with me. x**


	2. Hair

**CHAPTER 2: Hair**

(Sherlock)

The Black Lotus case, and it was feet I needed, in addition to a conduit to those feet - who also happened to be Dr. Molly Hooper.

Business-like, yet with a tinge of cheer and friendliness I enter Bart's, since I have been informed this demeanor to be the most effective way to earn favours. (When John caught me practising what I imagined to be the appropriate amount of bonhomie in the mirror, his reaction was a mixture of hysteria and chastening, and although I sometimes filter his opinions, I did suspect this was an area of his... _expertise_ rather than my own). In the thirty-seven days since our last meeting, I have endeavoured to gain clarity regarding my inexplicable and unpredictable reactions towards her, and feel the separation has done much to give a desirous sense of proportion to something I can only describe as _ridiculous_. What must I, who have loved so little and so sporadically, know of its intricacies and machinations? Notoriously difficult to analyse and catalogue, this human condition is a bafflement both to those in its thrall and scientific researchers attempting to quantify the unquantifiable. It is a state of mind, and I determine to apply mind over matter, a path proved more than profitable to me in the past.

Thus, first locate the conduit, then procure access to two bodies I have absolutely no rights to access and subsequently examine the feet for a particular example of body art, all the time preserving a pleasant yet official demeanor. Love is a construct, perpetuated by starry-eyed theorists and the greetings card industry. Love is an overused word, seldom demonstrated in any useful or discernable manner in the modern world. Love is... redundant. I stride purposefully into the canteen; confident, strong, aloof, and see her ruminating on choice of main course (all deplorable), still holding her clipboard.

She turns.

Soft lights across the heated counter diffuse shadow and depth to the planes of her face, and bounce across the copper of her hair, bringing out small glints of gold. She sees me, smiling as I parrot the words I had rehearsed, but I am not listening to myself, just staring at her hair. It parts at the side, twisting in intricate braiding to one side of her neck, leaving the other exposed, pale, vulnerable, beautiful. I see the swallow in her throat as she consults her clipboard and prepares to refuse my request, and fancy I can discern a pulse therein and I am shocked to find I want to touch it. A faint blush has crept across her cheeks as she clearly finds no joy in the bureaucracy of the morgue and never wants to disappoint. I swallow, unconsciously mimicking her own nervousness and realise I must speak, since I am beginning to give the impression of being mesmerised, and I say the first words I can think of:

"You changed your hair ( _molten copper, moulded into a caress_ )," I pause. I know I am pointing. _Classic liar - wanting to turn the attention away from himself_. "The style - it's usually parted in the middle…" I am completely out of my depth. "It suits you better this way." ( _white throat, slender, beautiful, turning away from me, leading me to my prize_ ).

Sweat prickles beneath my shirt, my heavy coat, as I follow, garnering my wits and cursing my weakness. I have my access, I have my corpses, I have my armour back down as my face is set-

But all I want to do is touch her hair and pull it loose.

(Molly)

I turn from the sad array of grisly meats on the canteen hot plate (like I don't see enough of those in my lab), slap bang into the Icelandic ( _green? blue_?) eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He looms, somewhat quizzically over me, even attempting some kind of banter regarding the general state of the menu and, bizarrely, my hair.

 _"...it suits you better this way."_

I'm not sure he knows his French plaits from his fishtails, but I can't resist a tiny smirk as I lead him back upstairs to fulfil his request regarding the Van Coon bodies. Buttering up is clearly not his strong point, but it is enjoyable to know Sherlock Holmes isn't good at everything he attempts and that, in fact, he's quite right: it _does_ suit me and I _am_ looking pretty hot for a girl who's usually elbow deep in someone's chest cavity rather than at the salon, and had about thirty seconds to do her hair this morning.

Too right, my arrogant adonis, I _do_ look good, and I'm letting you see those bodies because, despite all the flannel, I like you. Beyond the Byronic curls and cheekbones, I know there's _something_ there.

He even holds the door for me.


	3. Jim from IT

**CHAPTER THREE: Jim from IT**

(Sherlock)

John appears to be striding rather briskly as we leave the Morgue. Even allowing for his parade ground method of perambulation, I find I have trouble keeping alongside (annoying, since I need to see how closely he's shaved this morning - I have my reasons). It isn't until the crossing at the Giltspur junction when the lights are (unusually) in my favour, that I realise he is actually upset with me. Face set, jaw tight and fists clenched to his side (parade ground?) even when he is stilled. I run through possible reasons ( _given his key to Wiggins, talcum powder spilt down the side of his dresser, girlfriend messages written on coffee filter paper, making coffee with toilet paper_ ) but it seems my fool's paradise is swiftly dampened down by a single word:

"Molly."

"I'm not sure I - "

"Yes you do. Rude, Sherlock. Hurtful. Rude and hurtful. Think that about covers it."

The lights change and we are walking again. I am oblivious to the traffic, only seeking knowledge from his set face. Was I obvious? Did he see? Did Molly Hooper, or that grinning idiot she is meeting at 'The Fox' have any inkling as to the churning vat of jealousy that had bubbled up from nowhere when she said:

" _Office romance!"_

Obey the rules. No eye contact is best. Show no surprise or even interest. Look at the slide as if it held the secrets of the universe atop its glassy sheen. His evident homosexuality did little to cheer me, since she was seemingly quite unaware and more that happy to sip warm cider in a noisy pub, letting that fool enjoy her smile and the way her eyes cast downwards, then up, to catch your words and make them into nonsense, since you can no longer think clearly.

" _Nice to meet you."_

Mouth dry, heart-thumping, blood in my ears, whooshing through the labyrinth. It's all I can do not to stand, pick up the scrap of paper he leaves for me and shove it into his exposed waistband. Grubby, bright-eyed, disgusting.

" _You too."_ Ah, John. Always saying (and doing) the right thing. Stepping into the breach to make reparation for… me. I can understand now, why he storms ahead, not wanting my defense.

John stops suddenly on the corner, adjacent to the Big Issue seller (Jenny, one of my favourite Networkers) and I think he's turning towards me, arm out to halt my anxious pursuit, until I see the black cab.

He looks at me briefly before stepping into it, and making sure I know I won't be sharing it with him.

"And _no_ , you weren't saving her time, and _no_ \- it wasn't kinder." His navy eyes assess me, merciless, raw.

"She's a good girl, Sherlock. Saved you countless hours from the goodness and generosity of her heart. What right have you to burst her bubble? You don't want her, so let's crap all over her chance with anyone else shall we?"

He shakes his head and I know the cab driver (who has a ticket for the match tonight and is eager not to be late) is getting impatient, but John Watson is a soldier; he stands his ground.

"What's wrong with you?" he mutters, fire dampened down now to a puzzled resignation. "Sometimes, Sherlock, I think someone damaged you - a long time ago." He swings the door shut, pushing down the window, but I cannot respond. I have no possible defense.

"Be bloody kinder," he mutters, finally as the cab pulls away. " She's a good girl."

I watch it weave into the evening traffic, almost choking, drowning in the swirling, insane maelstrom of emotions powering through me, self-loathing currently leading the flow. Heart hammering, eyes blurring, nausea threatening, all overlaid with a surging, boiling anger. Not at John, never John, but at myself. Only a small hand on my shoulder rips through my reverie and causes a damaged heart to soar momentarily. But it is not Molly Hooper (good God, why would it be? Idiot!) but Jenny, Networker and part time Big Issue seller.

"You OK Sherlock?" She peers through rheumy eyes, made dull by too many winters spent under city skies, but her concern is real and makes tears prick stupidly from eyes still watching the cab being swallowed up into the gloom of the evening. "You and him had a fight?" She pats me gently with old hands and cackles briefly. "Over a girl, was it? Not worth it, in my opinion, them girls."

I turn and look at her, slowly gaining control and finding some small comfort in getting through another day without my secret showing.

"Usually," I murmur, shutting down my heart again. "But there is an exception to every rule."

(Molly)

He's attentive, getting the drinks in both times, and even choosing some music from the jukebox (not really a fan of the Bee Gees but, hey…) but it's me letting this date down. Me, Molly Hooper, on a date with a nice, attentive, only slightly over-groomed man, owing to being...distracted. Not _bored_ \- no, of course not, but off my game; head all over the place. And, I don't have to be all that introspective to know why, either.

He didn't have to be so rude. I've been pretty accommodating all these months, getting him access to more or less everything he's asked me for (and one or two things/thumbs he hadn't). I've never asked him for coffee again (dating? Am guessing, not really his area), but I did imagine we had some kind of mutual respect thing going on. Sometimes, when I pass him a file without him needing to ask, or he opens a door for me without me needing to, I do sense an unspoken rapport between us, which no-one else can see, but points towards kindness and appreciation. Tonight in the lab was a pretty big disappointment then. Sure, I've seen Sherlock and the withering heights of his disdain (God, he can fell Sanderson at fifty paces), but I didn't peg him as cruel, and certainly not towards me.

I poke listlessly into my bag of crisps (Jim's no slouch with the salty snacks either) and give myself a mental shake. It's bad enough Sherlock messed up my afternoon, but it's totally wrong he's messing up my date too. I look up, plastering a smile across my face as my _date-ee_ emerges from the lairy throng, cider glasses in hand (hope it's a bit colder this time), bag of nuts between his teeth, smiling right back, and consider it might be easier forgetting about Sherlock if Jim didn't keep bringing him up.

" _He's a brilliant man, I've heard."_

" _He's pretty clever, yes."_

" _Read his blog all the time: fascinating! The Science of Deduction! Isn't that so clever? Just like thinking, but going backwards instead of forwards. Brilliant."_

Then-

" _Sherlock and John - they're a couple, yes?"_

" _Mmm… no, I don't think so. John goes out with women, I'm pretty certain."_

" _Ah, sorry. Didn't mean to assume…"_

" _No, no, it's fine. People think that all the time."_

" _And, Sherlock…?"_

" _Ah - well… I don't think Sherlock's the couple type."_

And-

" _You only recently moved to London?"_

" _Yes. Did my degree in Durham, and kinda stayed there."_

" _Oh? I'm an Oxford girl. Been here quite a few years, but never get the chance to sightsee."_

" _We need a Londoner to show us both around."_

" _Yes."_

 _(Pause. Know what's coming)_

" _We should ask Sherlock to show us where the cool kids hang out."_

I sigh into the bottom of my glass, wondering what the time is and how it seems I'm not the only one with a sizeable crush on Sherlock Holmes.

 **~x~**


	4. Christmas

**CHAPTER FOUR: Christmas**

(John)

Sherlock returns from the Morgue a little after eleven on Christmas Day, but I am ready for him.

His feet drag on the stair, like all the fight has left him, but I'm resolved, since this has gone on for long enough. Guests long gone, fairy lights off, festive blaze just embers in the grate and a decided (not entirely metaphorical) chill in the air. He enters, eyes heavy and … desolate? Disenchanted? Disinterested? I waver for a second, but then his gaze alights on the shiny-red beribboned package on the table between us and he sighs, sinking into his chair with coat still on, the scent of illicit cigarettes floating wraith-like about his form.

"John, I-"

"Is it her?"

"Who?"

"Is it Irene Adler?"

He nods, head low and staying down, pressed towards his chest on the second nod.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

He snaps back, laser-fast, eyes all over me suddenly, lethargy gone.

"Yes, of course I am." I say. "She was a living, breathing person. Her interests were… _varied_ , but who the hell am I to judge?"

His eyes narrow, but I plough on.

"Sherlock, I know you've had the shittest of shit Christmases, and I'm not here to get at you, but you need to talk to me."

I wait a beat. Two beats. But I'm used to waiting. I could wait all night.

"I'm distinctly _disobliged_ to speak to anyone else tonight, John. I have murders to solve and Royals to protect - " His eyes continuously shift from my face to the red package on the table. I lean forward towards it. He leans forward too. I don't even think he knows he's doing it.

"You … you haven't been yourself lately." I know we don't talk like this often, and I know why, but he's just -

"You seem to be odd, quiet, withdrawn more than ever before. With me, here, it's not so bad, but when we are out at the Yard or the Morgue, you've lost all your ...Sherlock, I know this sounds weird, but I think you've lost your _confidence_." I look at him, but his face is blank, fatigue's broad brush strokes beneath his eyes, across his temples.

"You are eating less, sleeping less, staggering between extreme rudeness (as demonstrated by tonight) and virtual catatonia. Don't bother denying it, I KNOW you…" When did my voice raise? I try to level things out. I speak softly.

"Sherlock, are you? I mean, do you... have _feelings_ for …" His face is parchment white, knuckles gripping the chair like I've attached electrodes to his head. _Christ_.

" _For Irene_. Did you love her? Sherlock, it's OK, whatever it is… whatever it _was_."

He stands, suddenly and swaying and I think he might faint, but miraculously, he gathers his wits and steadies himself, loosening his coat and casting its weight across the chair he just vacated. He leans in towards me and, feeling like a treacherous dog, I fancy I see a sheen of sweat across his brow and a tremor in the hand he reaches out.

" _Don't_ ," he grits out, "be ridiculous, John. You know _exactly_ what I think of sentiment."

And he grasps the red parcel, large hand obscuring the label until I can only just make out ' _Dearest Sherlock -_ ', and turns on his heel, disappearing into his room just as Mrs Hudson's hall clock chimes out a tinny little midnight, taking us abruptly into Boxing Day.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," I whisper, light as the snowflakes falling into the deserted city streets below.

 **~x~**


	5. Solve Crimes

**CHAPTER FIVE: Solve Crimes**

(Molly)

I get out my notebook and pen, since I know accuracy is important, and I know he's feeling a little… _lost_. John is angry with him and he needs a stand in... _me_. What do I need? Well, I need… _this_.

For a while (too long) every dark haired, long limbed, confident walker I encountered on London's highways and by-ways elicited a lurch in the chest, a catch in the throat, a spike in adrenaline when I thought it was him. God knows what that was like for John, since I was one of the few who knew it wouldn't be - _couldn't be_ \- him, but someone forgot to let my amygdala know that Sherlock Holmes was no longer in my hemisphere and might never stop by again. After six months, I stopped checking my phone every hour (but still refreshed my inbox more than was healthy) and after twelve months, I even stopped looking across to the swing door of the lab every time someone pushed it open out of usual shift hours. I lost touch with John, with Mrs Hudson, with everyone who connected me to him by an invisible, fragile thread. The intermittent clicking whirr made by my phone from time to time reminded me that Mycroft Holmes was not a man to take chances, no matter how tenuous, and I did take some comfort in that.

So, I moved on.

Brilliant.

Tom is the sort of man who knows when your coffee's getting cold and leaps up to brew you another before you even need to ask. He laughs at my (often awful) jokes, holds my hand on walks, makes sure I'm warm in the winter and cool in the summer and sometimes looks at me like I'm the Golden Gate bridge, or the Trevi fountain, or even a winning lottery ticket, and I then feel the weight of what it means to be loved and held dear. Thus, I am responsible for Tom's happiness equal to the responsibility I have for my own, only it's a lot easier to disappoint myself - I've had years of practise. But, one of the most appealing things about my new fiance has (shamefully) very little to do with his own personal idiosyncrasies and character. The best thing about Tom (to me) is that he never really knew nor mentioned Sherlock Holmes, and that was the talisman upon which I built our happiness.

Until he came back.

So, here I sit, notebook in hand and (hopefully) enquiring caste to my facial expression, eyebrow cocked in quizzical mode. I am _being John_ , but I am not really watching the clients, I am watching Sherlock: the turn of his head, the splay of his hand, the drawing down of his brow as he castigates that wicked little stepfather. He's more polite, more amenable and approachable with me since he came back; exhibiting trust, seeking out opinions, since we've shared something too huge, too monstrous to ever be alluded to again. The lies I told for Sherlock Holmes _were_ huge and monstrous, and telling them - living them - corroded a little more of me each day, and I can only believe that he knew it, since Sherlock is kind, almost gentle, with me now, as we both bear the price of secrecy.

(Sherlock)

It's like a pixelated glitch in the corner of the screen; a scratch on the window that's just within your eyeline; a smudge at the edge of your sunglasses.

She sits, pen aloft, notebook ready, face set to ' _polite interest_ ' and every movement, every huff of air she sighs (I hear them all) and strand of hair that catches, static-like, to her cheekbone, I upload and catalogue, for future reference, for my database.

But I can still see it, in my peripheral vision. I cannot watch Molly Hooper as I castigate (another) liar sat in my client's chair, or slough away Anderson's embarrassment of a 'case', without the glitch, the scratch, the smudge degrading everything. Ruining everything.

Two years away. It seems I underestimated the damage that lies can do to others. What, I wonder, are my lies doing to myself? My innerworkings? I picture a dessicated, blackened, lifeless cavity behind my ribs where I am decomposing from the inside out. Perhaps my oesophagus, my throat, my mouth and tongue itself shall become discoloured, tainted. I shake myself mentally, since my focus is awry and I may have allowed Anderson's gothic disaster to add a little too much weight to my thoughts. A Poe story pops up, unbidden - _The Tell-Tale Heart,_ a man tortured by the sound of a heart beating night and day, never finding the source until the end; everything ending badly. This is my punishment. Two years away and a bitingly cold night in a Serbian forest, brittle gasps in the icy air were welcomed, since distraction was a temporary balm for a tell-tale heart - a physical slap to make it all just… _stop._

" _That's impossible!"_

" _Welcome to my world."_

On the way to railway man's house, I am struck by a sudden memory:

"You're hungry?"

"Er…" she pushes away a strand. I am grateful for her gloves. "No...no, not really."

"It's just you mentioned - before - you mentioned dinner."

Head ducking, hands to face again, eyes looking up, then down, then up. Moderate embarrassment. Perhaps six on the scale.

"I… I, er… was confused. About today, about this."

I don't answer. I don't know how.

What are we doing, Molly Hooper? What am I doing to you? To myself?

The underground footage is significant. Interesting even. Molly's scarf winds three times around her neck (the day is particularly cold: Serbian, even) and she is currently in contact with two dogs: a golden retriever (oldest) and a jack russell (untrained - probably untrainable). She is visiting the theatre tonight, a musical. She is not particularly fond of musicals. She keeps her gloves on and I am momentarily relieved at railway man's lack of central heating.

" _Girlfriend?"_

My tone was perhaps, suspect, since she catches my eye. Truthfully, this happens enumerate times, since she _always_ catches my eye, with or without her knowledge. Her mouth quirks and I find I am not listening to him, only taking my cues from her reactions: amusement, pity, mild (then more distinct) interest, gratitude, indulgence. You are a mirror, Dr Hooper, and I (like the Lady of Shallot) see the world through you.

I smile ( _grotesque_ ) as I congratulate her on her engagement, the tiny diamond a speck of grit upon the lens of my universe, both seen and unseen.

" _I hope you'll be very happy Molly Hooper, you deserve it."_

And my blackened heart shrinks a little more under the weight of my lies.

 **~x~**


	6. Clean

**CHAPTER SIX: Clean**

The collective weight of their disapproval would have troubled me very little when utterly sober if I'm truthful, consequently, my inebriate self is quite enjoying this little pantomime. Wait, I contemplate blurrily, until you meet my brand new fiancee...

Brushed steel is cool and calming beneath filthy hands, and I fight an irresistible urge to lower my face onto it, closing my burning eyes. I stroke it for a while, losing track and thread of the highly censorious mutterings going on around me, reducing all to a soothing buzz and thrum.

I stagger a little as she enters the room (very recognisable creak and footstep, fuelled most certainly by… _mmm_ … quite _incandescent_ rage). The slap and snap of purple gloves pulled viciously from hands vibrating with a latent urge to -

The crack of her hand three times across my face serves not to humiliate but to awake, provoke - to _galvanize_ me. I am suddenly, splendidly _present_ , taking in their shock and her rage, encapsulated in the sparking amber flashing from her eyes. I touch my stinging jaw and fire straight back with crude deductions and harsh truths; anything to incite and enkindle. I am just high enough not to care for my audience as I envisage grabbing Molly Hooper by the arms, jerking her wild furiosity roughly towards me, running my grime and degradation through her silken hair, my roughness across her porcelain skin, and my hot, ravenous mouth to find hers. I am internally screaming with bestial, base and all-encompassing desire for her, and must hang my head, breathing shallow breaths into my chest.

And, as is usual, it is John that saves me, offering his unconditional help for my sudden and unfortunate descent into addiction:

" _... you could have called… you could have talked to me..."_

I breathe slower, heart beat calming, feeling his care - his love for me - and letting the beast ebb away as I watch the disgusted face of Molly Hooper, despising me and what I've become. And suddenly, I want to kick and punch and break everything in that room, weeping harsh and ragged for my almost unbearable burden.

But, of course, I don't.

" _Oh, please, just relax - "_ Casual, irritated, high.

And I let them lead me away while she watches from the window.

 **~x~**

(Molly)

Fingers still burn and crackle as I watch him amble, all carefree and drugged up and dressed like slum dweller, towards the car. Face dirty, clear eyes dimmed with opiates, free of cares, of thought, of respect for others. For himself.

I shouldn't have hit him like that. It was gauche and reactionary and _weak_. He needed more compassion than I was able to give and I'm ashamed I couldn't have been _helpful smiley Molly Hooper_ , but I'm feeling odd these days: _out of sorts Molly Hooper_ , and no mistake.

I'm not truly angry with Sherlock Holmes, you see, I'm angry with the world I live in now. A world of happiness that happens to people around me every day, yet is just out of my grasp. My world seems grey, inhabited with returned diamonds, dead eyes and broken promises; nights of TV, mumbling on in the background for company until death-o'clock; hour after hour of flickering fluorescent lights and elbows deep in the detritus of death; dead flowers weeping petals on the hall table where I dump my keys to mark an endless, groundhog ritual, day after day, week after week, month after month, stretching out into infinity.

I tuck my stinging hand across my chest, beneath my armpit, wallowing in a seemingly terminal attack of morbid and pointless self-pity. I shake my head, attempting a loosening of its grip as the car pulls away, cargo slumped carelessly across the back seat. I know my little black-and-white world inside out, and with its dreary familiarity comes a certain sense of security, of safety in its predictability.

The trouble is though, once a person from a black and white world sees a splash of colour, everything else that you used to find quite… _OK-ish_ , now just doesn't cut it anymore. I press my hot head against the window pane, feeling cool condensation prickle and spread.

 _Sherlock, you are my colour, and I love you._

I love you.

And it's ok.

You don't have to say it back.

 **~x~**


	7. A Lying Detective

**CHAPTER SEVEN: A Lying Detective**

(Sherlock)

She smells of emollient (probably Sudocrem or some similar brand), also of unfamiliar hand cream (Mary's? Yes. Violets. Sickening. Acrid). Toast crumbs (burnt) inhabit the left sleeve of her teal blue jumper; her hair is hastily piled up, strands askew (hurried, practical, the needs of another foremost in her mind), her eyes reveal one, two (too many) nights without sleep. She hasn't rung her mother in days, despite much haranguing on the part of the latter (her charger isn't working - she's barely noticed); she's sterilised the bottles but has only just realised the powdered milk will be insufficient (in the creases of her nails, the reminder note on the noticeboard in the kitchen gone unheeded; other things to think about. Naturally.)

"...if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help …"

I saw the letter in her hand, clutched tight, the paper creased and puckered, evidence of much debate and indecision. She knows she must hand it to me (Rosie writhes a little, making it more difficult for her to hide it; she wants to leave the decision to the last moment, as if she had some kind of choice in the matter) but she doesn't want to… she wishes to spare me, but I cannot be spared.

"...He ... said he'd r... that he'd rather have anyone but you. _(Softly, deathly)_ Anyone."

Molly Hooper's words hang, suspended in the air above our heads for several moments before they dissipate, crumbling into the late morning light.

 _Anyone._

Oh, John. The lies I have told.

I said I would protect his family, the loves of his life; I said they would come before my own. I meant what I said, but what good is that when words cannot stop a bullet, cannot make a heart beat again.

I have kept so much from my friend, my trusted companion for so many years. I thought I could protect him and his own from all that flesh is heir to, but this was little more than self assuming hubris on my part, and all the lies I have told flutter lifelessly, like tattered ensigns on the field of battle, when all is lost... all is gone.

" _Molly, you must know that I am in love with you."_

" _I don't un- "_

" _I have loved you since the day we met and have never been able to tell you until this moment."_

" _Sherlock?"_

" _I cannot let another moment pass until you know my feelings."_

" _You should have-"_

" _I am telling you now, since the world does not wait for lovers; the world is cruel and random and I might never again have the chance-"_

Anyone.

The door is closed behind baby and babysitter and the words I play out within my head crumple and dissipate also, floating upwards to join the others. Unsaid, unheard, unforgotten.

As I walk slowly up the steps and back into the throng of living, breathing, functioning townsfolk, going about their business, living their meaningful, fulfilling lives, I retrieve my phone and find Wiggins' number.

This cannot go on. It has to stop.

 **~x~**

(Bill Wiggins)

Well, it's for a case, innit? 'cept it ain't.

I know Shezzer, see. Sure, the others, they see _Sherlock 'olmes, Consulting Detective;_ fancy-pants, la-di-dah posh lad with 'is long vowels and starched collars - but I know things about that bloke that they don't. Trust me, I'm a dealer.

So, there 'e is, draped across 'is chaise-longue like Oscar-bleeding-Wilde, off 'is box and all the more bolshy for it, demanding stuff from me left, right and centre. I tells him I cook it up at me own pace - I'm a professional, see, just like 'im. So, there I am, cooking up a storm in that cramped little kitchen (truth be told, I've been in worse, but I do 'ave standards, just different ones to most people's) and I know (despite all that bluster and big talk) he just wants to keep something hidden, something sedated.

Yeah, I know things about that bloke and I also know when someone is hiding in plain sight. And it ain't that Culverton freakshow - not really.

"Wiggins!"

"Yeah, keep yer hair on. You can't rush a master."

"Do _you_ have a masters in chemistry?"

"Nope, but I am 'olding the test tube, so maybe you need to let me do my job."

"Job? You haven't troubled the job market since 2007."

"Feeling a little bit tetchy are we?"

"Precisely."

"What?"

"The fact that I have any feelings whatsoever is testament to your lack of application to the task in hand. How long?"

"Soon, Shezzer. Soon enough."

So, I know things and I know what sits right and what don't. I know liars and I know fakers; I know drama queens and I know genuine regret. I know what I know, and _sweet baby Jesus_...

I know a broken heart when I see one.

 **~x~**


	8. Emotional Context

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Emotional Context**

"So, it's for somebody who loves somebody."

So, here we have it. Finally. As inevitable as pride before a fall; laughing last (thus,laughing longest), tears before bedtime, more speed resulting in less haste. A consummation, devoutly to be wished. A reckoning. _My reckoning._ A girl ( _sister_ ) I could not ( _would not_ ) recollect knows the very heart of me, and she wants nothing more than to see it burn.

My brother is quick, almost as fast as she: almost.

"It's for somebody who loves Sherlock." He turns to me and I feel his pity washing over me in sickening waves. "This is all about you. Everything here."

Sweat prickles out, across my brow, my chest, my palms. I clench them, swallowing down the rearing, soaring, looming fear crawling up my throat, from the inside to the out. I reach out a hand (please don't shake... don't let her see any more of me) and touch the head of the coffin, wood hard and cold: unyielding.

"So who loves you?" He's pressing, he's playing for time, letting me gain equilibrium before she takes me down. " I'm assuming it's not a long list."

I look, as if I am deducing it. I am not, since I know already, but I must put on the show for the gallery, since this is what I _do_.

I am breathing too hard. I attempt to regulate. I widen my eyes to avoid rapid blinking. She won't be fooled though - she knows already.

I gaze into the coffin. I attempt to speak. My mouth is dry, words to be spoken harsh and cracked, to be splintered in delivery.

John is all action (always), thinking so hard, wanting to help, wanting to save me.

"Irene Adler!"

My heart is leaden, pounding with a dull, hefty thud, like a pendulum that might stop, unexpectedly, at any given moment. I cannot trust it's rhythm, I never could. I attempt more words, adding an arrogant caste.

"Don't be ridiculous. Look at the coffin. Unmarried, practical about death, alone."

 _Molly. You are the love of my life (So many days not lived, so many words unsaid)_ _._ _.. you have been the timbre, the tempo, the melody of my days and nights; the skittering arpeggio of so many thoughts, the rhythm of my tell-tale heart. I have kept this secret for so long, so heartbreakingly, pointlessly, needlessly…_

"...unless I hear the release code from her lips. I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Make her say it."

I wait for the realisation to bloom in John's eyes and we all three manage to turn to stare at the brass plaque glittering in the corner of my eyeline ( _glitch; scratch; grit upon the lens_ ), a silent witness to a cruelty that is double in its magnitude. My ex-flatmate, my chronicler, my right hand man must imagine I am reluctant to mortify and taunt someone who has become a close and loyal friend; someone I (literally) entrusted with my life. How could he know the truth of my cold and insolent deductions; my seemingly arrogant and thoughtless dismissals all those years ago? My web is so interwoven, so wreathed in layers of lies and misdirections that do everything to lead the observer away from the veracity of my heart. Thus, John will not fully appreciate the vivisection I must perform today.

There are _two_ butterflies to be pinned inside the collector's case.

 **~x~**

(Molly)

The baby cried long into the night last night.

There was nothing I could do to soothe her: no milk, no Calpol, no singing or rocking had any effect on the plaintive, relentless, _endless_ misery of that child.

"Shush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mocking bird…"

Her eyes wet and huge, blotches of red on soaked cheeks, shudders that took her little body and made it tremble within the surge of its despair. Her tiny fists crumpled into the soft fabric of my dressing gown, gripping onto it for the smallest shreds of comfort, and I stopped my stupid little song, since I realised (belatedly) that Momma wasn't buying anyone a mocking bird, or anything else, ever again.

And so I held little Rosamund Watson; little rose-of-the-world, clinging so tightly as if to imbue her sad little heart with a mother's love, by proxy of myself.

"Hush now, little Rose. It'll be ok. Really. It will be ok in the end."

 _But it won't, will it?_

And now...

"Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent, 'cause I'm not having a good day."

I had considered gin in place of tea, but had thought better of it (fearful I wouldn't know how to stop). His voice (odd, strangulated somehow, as if acting out some kind of … game?) made me regret my earlier decision. I had sliced my orange ready hadn't I?

"Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?"

Despite the cold-water-shocking-punch-to-the-gut horror just delivered to my ears, I am clinging to my anger for all I'm worth: it's all that's keeping me from howling. The clicking, whirring sound breaks up the signal and a fresh wave of agony skitters across my skin, prickling like goose pimples. What if Mycroft was still bugging my phone? The benign comfort it gave me when Sherlock was away _(dead)_ those two long years is swept away in a gasp of despair: what if they were all sat around listening to this? For fun. To mock me.

Sherlock is speaking. There are sounds, but I cannot listen over the high pitched drone of my own panic.

I catch a word and grasp my anger a-new.

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

"No, I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends. But ... please. Just ... say those words for me."

He knows. He knows fine well now (how could he not?) and has chosen to… to do _this_. I thought he understood. I thought he knew me… got who I was now. I don't blush, or rush to do his bidding - not now. I thought we were… respectful. Equals. _Friends_. I think of Rosie and I can almost feel her heavy, warm baby weight in my arms and the absence of its reality almost destroys me _(I never asked anything of you; never made it embarrassing… I adored you… you were my colours)._

 **~x~**

(Sherlock)

I have little doubt that Eurus will kill us all today.

Everything that I have guarded against, every piece I moved across the board has already been checkmated. For years. My choices were not really my choices but manipulations by a brain that calculates only puzzles instead of humanity, only endings rather than beginnings. I see Molly Hooper's face, so etched with agony, cupping the phone to her ear; listening to me rather than angrily casting it across hard marble countertops to watch it skitter and clatter to the floor, caring nothing for its outcome. Still she listens, and I could not love her more.

"I can't say that. I can't … I can't say that to you."

She is exhausted. I know the baby has been wretchedly out of sorts. The kitchen is ridiculously, obsessively tidy (a sign of her burgeoning anxiety), that jumper little more than a comfort blanket (owned for almost eleven years: a gift from her dead father) and the tea-making little more than a distraction. Despite the fastidious scrubbing, plants have not been watered and letters lie, piled up substantially over days, electively unopened. And, judging by the shadows across the windows, she has neglected to pay a window cleaner for some considerable time.

Yet still she listens.

And I must have her live. At all costs, she must wake up again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. That is my gift to her. I could not protect Mary Watson in the end, but this is a checkmate, and I intend to take the Queen. Don't admit, don't vacillate. Keep fidgeting to a minimum and gauge eye contact well (too little or too much gives you away). Overt blinking can do little but convince of your insincerity. Do not be garrulous or overly-friendly leave your face alone. Touching or itching is nothing more than an indicator of dishonesty. I keep my eyes focused frontwards, willing her, illogically, to catch my eye, to grasp (oh irony) after all these years, my sincerity.

"Of course you can. Why can't you?" I sense movement from the screen to my left. Big sister is watching. I must drive this forward before her patience has worn down.

"You know why."

She thinks I'm drunk? high? viciously motivated? I play for time. There is no more time.

"No, I don't know why." She is crying and I must be dead inside.

Closing my eyes, then opening, blinking rapidly.

"Please. Just say it." She cares for me, I know she does, but I cannot (never could really) bend her will to mine. Her voice is barely resonant; a tightly wound whisper, carried on the edge of a goodbye.

"I can't. Not to you."

 _Panic. Panic. Bite it down, eyes ahead. Do not blink._

"Why?"

Her voice cracks, infused with a despairing adulteration of fatigue, frustration and anger(?). (It is hard to know).

"Because… because it's true. Because… it's… _true_ , Sherlock. It's always been true."

And suddenly, leaping out in a bright, white light of revelation, my cowardly, blackened heart crackles in my chest.

And I believe her.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **A/N: all dialogue from The Final Problem taken from the excellent transcripts of _.com_**

 **One more chapter everyone!**


	9. Honest

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Honest**

(John)

0.02

I look at the clock, barely believing the evidence of my own eyes. I look at my friend, barely comprehending the evidence of my own ears.

 _(I love you)_

He is barely upright, hunched over where he stands, head bent down and cradled in his hands besides a loaded gun. He is trembling, adrenaline flooding through him like it is through all of us; but more for him because he's said it … he's said it _out loud_.

 _She made him tell the truth._

(And I don't mean Eurus.)

In this place, amongst this fucked-up family of geniuses, where logic is a byword for normal and deduction is a currency, I, John Watson, an everyman of the most average order have had a revelation of my very own. Not genius perhaps, but when you're always looking outwards and upwards, you sometimes miss what's right under your nose. But not me, I see it now.

 _Sherlock Holmes loves Molly Hooper._

 _He's loved her all along._

That bastard.

All the signs, all the little observations; so carefully guarded, so hidden away for so very long. Without even knowing it, he's been hiding his heart from Eurus his whole life and now she's performed a savage autopsy on her very own little brother.

He lowers his hands (the gun). He is giddy, high with euphoric relief.

"I won. I saved Molly Hooper!"

But I see his sister's face on that screen and I know it isn't true.

"Saved her? From what? Oh do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy?"

Jesus, his face. He recoils, as if she's pulled the trigger already.

"You didn't win, you lost."

His eyes, wide, staring, clamouring in his head for a handhold as he plummets downwards.

"Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count."

I am transfixed to the spot, paralysed as I watch my friend turn, walk away from the screen and calmly, noisily, drop the gun to the floor. But she deals her death blow anyway. She has made death her art this day.

"Emotional context Sherlock… it destroys you every time."

And I can only imagine the times in their sickening, poisonous childhood that she taunted him with such words; how many of those times there had been? I make to step forward as Sherlock lifts the coffin lid ( _why the hell is he tidying up?)_ but his brother grasps my wrist. Let him be.

By the time his fist crashes down, smashing the lid into flying, jagged shards of cheap wood, both Mycroft and I are still.

We let him be.

 **~x~**

(Sherlock)

Firstly, observe others before you observe yourself.

The next (and possibly the most essential stage) is to note the changes that have occurred over time, taking good note of the baseline reference point (touching, smiling, leaning towards each other...drinking coffee...in a shared circumstance). Put away all distractions (golden smile, appled cheeks, a deftly-wielded scapel) and invest your attention and dedication to the subject.

Try this ( _do_ )... watch a film in another language (or with the sound turned down) and observe the body language, the touch of a glove on a frosted cheek, the downturned scowl, the shuffle towards the door.

Most difficult. Link the observations. Form the bigger picture if you feel strong enough. I have observed and deduced the motives of others for almost thirty years and I am... _exhausted._

One works backwards you see, from the baseline.

My sister had willfully murdered my best friend. ( _I found a new one_ ). She influenced my thoughts, my actions and my desire to form attachments. Why would I bother? Why would I ever imagine it would be worth the … _risk?_

 _But, it was. It is._

She didn't understand (how could she?) that those who find it hardest to love are the ones who actually need it the most.

Baker Street.

Gracious, the wreck that it was is a merely now a memory, a stumble into a sadness that did little to understand the power of rejuvenation. The mantel is now pine (rather than rosewood) and the ceiling rose is a little less Georgian than it used to be. But, still.

I sit and watch the plumber fit the dishwasher into the kitchen; the movers carry the cot upstairs into John's room and several ( _nervous: young, inexperienced, infatuated_ ) youths move Molly Hooper's microscope, hot plate and centrifuge into my recently plastered basement, and I smile as I adjust the calibration on my rotary evaporator ( _digital display; vacuum pump - I am only human_ ).

"Molly," I say, "I have loved you since the day I met you."

She turns, white shirt incandescent beneath the glowing shafts of dusty sunlight that currently inhabit my Baker Street hallway ( _celestial_ ). She smiles ( _heart-stopping_ ), stepping over a (beautifully tempered) heating bath which will eventually inhabit my basement lab, and I find my pulse thrums a little faster, a little stronger.

( _I am greedy for her mouth, her skin, her scent. Weak. Mesmerised. Irresistible. Useless to struggle, to hold back)_

Her dark eyes shine, telegraphing a love I refused to see from behind the armour of my own fears. She smiles again, and I still believe her.

"Sherlock, darling boy, I _know_ ," she says, touching me, the heat of her leaching through her hands, sharing warmth, strength, hope, love - and neither of us knows anything more than the absolute and utter truth.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to all who read, followed and took the time to review. It really was (as always) a pleasure to share.**

 **(The notes on the last chapter got chopped by this site - apologies. I meant to praise the meticulous transcripts of Ariane Devere).**


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